by Shenda Paul
“Okay,” I say, and he graces me with a devastating smile. “I’ll come for you as soon as I’ve changed. We’ll eat in,” he calls over his shoulder.
We’re relaxing after dinner, this time, on the sofa in Luke’s living room. He cooked a delicious meal earlier, pairing veal with freshly squeezed lemon and sage in a sauce for the fettuccini. I’m not much of a cook but did what I could to help. Luke assured me it’s simple to learn to prepare tasty, nutritious meals in very little time. “It’ll come in handy when you’re touring,” he told me and promised we’d cook together more often so I can learn.
He changes the music, and Amy Winehouse’s warm, raspy voice fills the room as he returns to my side. He cups my neck and pulls me in for a kiss, which quickly turns passionate. I let out a tiny moan, my fingers tightening in his hair as he sinks down, his body half covering mine. I lose coherent thought when Luke runs his tongue down the column of my neck. His hand moves to cup my breast, and he squeezes, drawing yet another moan from me. He fingers the opening of my blouse and leans back to look at me, silently seeking permission. I nod dumbly, my heart thudding in my chest.
“Let me make you feel good,” he says, his voice husky with desire.
“I…” I stutter,” I don’t know if I’m ready. “Luke, I’ve never…”
“Shhh, sweet girl, not that; I can wait. I just want to make you feel good. Do you trust me?”
I do, so I tell him, but he picks up on my nervousness. “Relax, Angelique,” he soothes. “We won’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with.” With my silent acquiescence, he unbuttons my top and slips it from my shoulders. My face heats as he takes in my lacy white bra. Luke kisses my shoulder, “Stunning,” he says before leaning me back. He runs his hand over my hip and onto my naked abdomen, stroking my skin, soothing me as one would a nervous animal. Long fingers circle my belly button before he moves upward to cup my breasts. “May I,” he asks, touching my bra strap. My whispered, “Yes,” is barely audible.
“You’re unbelievably beautiful,” he tells me, hot breath washing over a naked breast. Luke licks my erect nipple and then his warm, wet mouth closes over my peak.
I gasp, calling his name as my body arches, seeking more. He languidly moves his mouth from one breast to the other. I moan out loud, too lost in sensation to be embarrassed. All I can do is absorb the exquisite torture he’s inflicting. “Are you comfortable to take this into the bedroom?” Luke lifts his head to ask.
“Yes,” I answer hoarsely, and, with a passionate kiss, he pulls me to my feet and sweeps me up in his arms. Amy Winehouse sings No Greater Love. I can only hope, I think and tighten my arms around Luke’s neck.
He lays me down on his bed and covers my body with his before hungrily claiming my lips. Luke pulls back only when we’re both gasping for air. He kneels between my legs and strokes from my collarbone to my abdomen, each pass igniting yet another nerve in my body. He slips his hands into the waistband of my yoga pants and stills. I nod, and he slowly peels it from my body, leaving long, lingering kisses in his wake. He moves to suckle my breasts and bites down. I groan, arching off the bed.
“Luke…” I whimper.
“I’ll take care of you,” he promises.
I start to clumsily unbutton his shirt. He chuckles lightly and sits up to remove it. Feeling emboldened, I touch the waistband of his jeans. “Angelique, we don’t have to…” he protests.
“I want to,” I assure him.
“Are you absolutely sure?” he asks, and when I whisper my response, kisses me deeply before he gets up to remove his trousers. He’s stunning, standing before me, lean and lithe. I can’t miss the protruding bulge in his underwear, and, for just a moment, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. But the tender look in his eyes settles me. He returns to bed and kisses me softly on the mouth. “I’ll be gentle,” he reassures me. He cups my face, locks his eyes with mine and slowly lowers his head to kiss me. I wrap both arms around his waist, relishing the feel of his weight on me.
Luke rotates his hips, and I eagerly match his rhythm, running my hands across his shoulders and down his muscled back to grasp his backside, holding him to me. “Angelique,” he pants, “I’ll come if you keep doing that.”
“Oh!” I feel my face flush with mortification. “No, baby, I love it; I just don’t want to come before you do,” he says, brushing his lips over my breast.
“I want to make you feel good first,” he murmurs, licks a nipple and does the same to the other. I moan and feel him smile against my skin, before gently biting down on my flesh. He licks and sucks until I’m writhing before he slowly descends, placing wet, open-mouthed kisses everywhere his mouth touches. He looks up at me, his face hovering over my most private parts. “You’re exquisite, Angelique… so perfect in every way,” he says and holds my gaze as he lowers to lay a kiss on my mound.
I inhale sharply—at the pleasurable feeling and also at the sheer intimacy of the act. Of course, I know about oral sex; Mandi enjoys telling me in graphic detail just how great it is, to embarrass me more than anything, I’m sure, but I’ve never experienced it. I can’t help worrying that Luke will expect me to reciprocate and then be disappointed because I don’t know what to do.
As if sensing my turmoil, he speaks. “Angelique, relax. Let me make you feel good. Trust me, baby, if you don’t like it, I’ll stop.” I nod, and Luke smiles as he parts my legs and kisses the inside of my thighs.
He flicks his tongue out to touch my bundle of nerves, and all self-consciousness goes out of the window. I let out a tiny gasp when he does it again. Luke opens my folds and uses both tongue and fingers. I moan freely now, writhing, seeking more, more of his touch, more of the pleasure he gives. My muscles contract as heat and pleasure combine, rushing in like a tidal wave to consume me. I call out, barely recognizing my own voice. His tongue moves in ever slowing circles until, finally, I stop shuddering.
Luke kisses me, and I taste myself on his tongue. Rather than feel revulsion, I find myself more aroused. Luke breaks our kiss to look at me. “Are you sure? We can stop—”
“I’m sure.” I lean forward to kiss his chest. With a last, lingering look to check for any hesitation, he opens his bedside drawer and pulls out a condom. I watch, awed, as he sheaths himself. I can’t help the pang of anxiety as I take in his size. Luke touches my cheek. “You’ll stretch to accommodate me,” he reassures me before rising to his knees between my parted legs. “Angelique, tell me if it’s too much, please,” he appeals, and I nod. He grasps himself and rubs against me, teasing me, only just entering me before pulling out. He repeats this over and over, until I feel like I’m about to combust.
Luke’s gaze is fixed on mine, measuring my every response. The feeling of stretching is uncomfortable as he breaches me inch by inch, withdrawing only to do it again, sinking deeper each time, until he reaches my barrier. Jaw clenched tight, sweat forming on his brow, he stops, breathes deeply and holds himself in check. My feelings for this wonderful, caring man nearly overwhelm me when I realize how much he’s thinking of my comfort rather than his pleasure.
“Luke,” I reach up to touch his cheek, “it’s fine; I’m fine.” He leans down to kiss me, then, in one movement, thrusts forward. I gasp at the short, sharp pain. He covers my mouth with his, his body held rigid, giving me time to accommodate him. Wrapping my arms around his shoulder, I thrust upward and do it again until he relaxes. He kisses me tenderly before, raising himself onto his elbows, he moves in slow, long strokes. Discomfort is suffused by pleasure, and, as I wrap my legs around his waist, Luke steadily picks up pace.
“Angelique, oh baby…” he gasps, resting his forehead to mine. He reaches between our bodies and rhythmically circles my bud, and I tumble over the edge. Luke’s pace becomes erratic. His entire body, it seems, tenses as he throws his head back, the veins in his neck prominent, before he too succumbs.
Luke returns from the bathroom, where he discarded the warm, wet cloth and towel he’d used to take care of
me. He pulls me into his chest and kisses me tenderly.
“Would you like me to run you a bath?”
“I’m fine; in fact, I feel great,” I beam up at him.
“You’re so beautiful, Angelique. Thank you for honoring me with such a precious gift. Believe me, I don’t take it lightly, and I want you to know I feel deeply about you. In fact, I’m more than halfway to being in love with you.”
“I care for you too,” I lean up to kiss his lips before snuggling into his chest, suddenly feeling exhausted.
“Get some sleep, baby,” is the last thing I hear before I drift off to sleep.
Luke wakes me with a breakfast tray, then, after eating in bed, he runs a bath, filling it with scented oils he’d raced out to buy earlier. He joins me in the bathtub and lovingly bathes me, before wrapping me in a fluffy towel. We spend the rest of our free time wrapped in each other’s arms, just kissing and cuddling.
Before we need to get ready for the theater, he gives me oral sex again, saying he wants to make me feel good one more time. He refuses my offer to reciprocate. “We’ll work up to that,” he promises when I protest.
I feel sure everyone will be able to tell I’ve had sex, and at first, I blush every time someone looks at me. No one, thankfully, comments on my altered state. They may be oblivious, but the pleasant ache in my body reminds me that I’m truly a woman now. I can’t help smiling at the knowledge. Luke too, seems inordinately pleased with himself. He leaves me at my dressing room door with a tender kiss and a prediction that we’d give our best performance ever tonight. “We’re perfect together,” he whispers with a meaningful kiss.
I’m in a state of bliss as I check my pointes and costume before starting my make-up. It doesn’t last long, however, because my happiness is interrupted by the raised voices just outside my door. I race to listen.
“Dieter, you will not do this; I swear—”
“You’re just jealous, that I grew tired of you, Ingrid.”
“I got over you a long time ago, and I’ve managed to rebuild my life. But I will not allow you to hurt Angelique. You will not destroy another dancer’s life.”
“I will not destroy her life! I will guide Angelique to the greatest heights. I will give her nothing but the best,” he practically shouts. I slowly ease the door open, just enough to allow me to see. He’s leaning over her, almost dwarfing her. She lifts her chin to glare at him, tears clearly visible in her eyes.
“The same heights you promised me? You’re despicable, Dieter. You will not seduce Angelique!”
I gasp, shocked at how naïve, how stupid I’ve been. He’s always made me uncomfortable, but I convinced myself his interest in me had only been about my dancing.
They turn to face me, their expressions as shocked as mine must surely be right now. Miss Ingrid’s steps forward, her face the picture of contrition.
“Angelique, I’m so sorry….” she says, but Master Gustav’s agitated voice, announcing that we have a problem, interrupts. She glances worriedly first at Mr. Quandt and then me, clearly torn about what to do. Master Gustav calls her again, his annoyance at her lack of response unmistakable. He catches sight of me then.
“Angelique, you should be getting dresses,” he snaps.
“You have a job to do, Ingrid; you should do it,” Mr. Quandt tells Miss Ingrid icily.
She remains reluctantly, but, when Mater Gustav hurries her along, she follows, calling to me over her shoulder. “I’ll see you at home tonight. Will you be there?”
I shake my head, but before she can respond or I can lock myself in my room, Mr. Quandt grabs my elbow and firmly guides me inside.
7
“I t’s time you and I talked,” he says, shutting the door with a resounding thud.
“Stay away from me,” I warn, trying, but failing to sound assertive.
“Oh, it’s much too late for that, beautiful girl, I’ve never been able to stay away from you. You needed me too; you still do, you just don’t know it yet—but you will. Without me you would not have been introduced to ballet, now would you? And you do love it, don’t you, Angelique?”
He smiles smugly when I nod.
“Good. I’ve waited for eleven years to tell you what I expect from you. You owe me. Without me, you wouldn’t have had much of a life; you’d be a nobody. Because of me, you’re the toast of the European ballet world. You have a great future, a future with me, Angelique. I’ve wanted you from the moment I first saw you. Even at that tender age, you attracted me, and I would have had you years ago, but Ingrid got in the way, jealous shrew that she is. She forgets she was sixteen when she came to my bed. She loved every minute spent there, no matter what she now says.
“You’re of age now, Angelique; no one can stand in my way, and I intend to claim what’s mine.”
“I owe you nothing. I auditioned and earned my scholarship. Miss Ingrid chose me…”
He laughs. “Ingrid did as she was told. You showed potential, but so did several of the girls we turned down. I chose you; I am responsible for you being here. From the moment I saw you, I wanted to mold you into the perfect woman for me; exquisite dancer and obedient lover.” He reaches to touch my face, but I turn my head.
“Stay away from me; I’ll scream.”
“This conversation is not over, beautiful girl. We will finish it after your performance. That young pup will not get in my way; he cannot stop the inevitable. You will be mine,” he says, reaching out once more. I smack his hand away.
“I like a woman with fire, Angelique. Perhaps I will not have to be gentle with you after all.” He smirks lasciviously before he turns to leave. I don’t think I’ve ever hated him, his smile, or his voice more.
I rush to lock the door. My limbs tremble, and my stomach lurches sickeningly. I only just make it to the toilet before I throw up, retching convulsively until my stomach muscles ache. Back at my dressing table, I stare at my weepy eyes and pallid skin in the mirror. No signs, now, of the happy glow I arrived with.
I force myself to calm. “You can’t fall apart. You’re a professional, and you can’t fail your obligations, especially if you want to secure a place in a ballet company,” I tell myself. I swear, then, to find a position anywhere other than New York. I couldn’t stand to be in the same city as that vile man.
For the first time, since starting ballet, I struggle to immerse myself in my character. I manage to get through my first solo without raising any adverse reaction, and, by the time the scene where I, as Giselle dance with Luke in his guise as Loys, comes around, I’ve regained my composure. The presence of my fellow cast, that of Luke, especially—his touch, the affection in his eyes—combine to settle me, help me forget the incident in my dressing room. I’m grateful, however, at the end of Act One, when Miss Ingrid offers to help me change costumes.
In the second act, where the Willis raises my spirit and then disappear, just as Luke’s and my final pas de deux draws near, I notice someone in the forbidden wing area. There’s good reason that space is declared off-limits during performances. Any unexpected movement could distract dancers onstage. Anyone even remotely associated with ballet production knows that. And if, for some reason, they’re in that area, they are to remain still and out of the performers’ line of sight. Master Gustav emphasized that point to everyone involved in this production on more than one occasion. So I can’t imagine who would ignore his directive.
Luke enters from the opposite wing, the one where the Willis spirits exited, and, as he hovers over the cross marking Giselle’s grave, the person moves into clear sight. My heart hammers in my chest when I recognize Dieter Quandt. I don’t have time to ponder or dwell on his presence. I push down my anxiety. “Right now, you’re Giselle, about to reunite with your love,” I remind myself.
And when I reach out for Luke, I am that Rhineland girl—Luke is Albrecht, and Dieter Quandt is forgotten.
We’re about to execute one of the most challenging sequences, one of Master Gustav’s masterful inno
vations for this production. Luke is already in position, and I’m about to take to the air for a grand jeté when Dieter steps forward. He’s practically at the edge of the stage, his stance threatening. I falter, badly misjudge, and fall—spectacularly. From somewhere, some remote part of my brain, my subconscious speaks. “That was not graceful,” she says. I can only agree. Her voice is silenced, though, by loud gasps from the audience and Luke’s agonized cry. Excruciating pain rips through my left leg. Through a veil of agony, I register Luke’s anguished face, his murmured words of comfort, and his gentle touch on my cheek. I want to reassure him, but I can’t; my hand’s too heavy, and the words won’t come. Someone shouts, “Don’t move her,” and then everything goes black.
I can’t move. I feel leaden, so drowsy; I can barely raise my head. I don’t need mobility or a clear head to see my leg, though. It’s hard to miss, encased in bulky wrapping, suspended by a pulley contraption as it is. And with that devastating sight, my memory returns.
I look around me. I’m in a hospital; that’s clear. I don’t know the time, but it’s dark outside, I can tell. How many performances have I missed? I wonder. Tears make their way down my cheeks as I recall Dieter Quandt’s menacing figure. For the first time in my life, I feel a surge of pure, bone-deep hatred for another person.
“You’re awake,” an efficient-sounding voice says. “I’m Anneliese, your nurse for tonight. Would you like a sip of water before I let the doctor know that you are awake?” she asks, then, without waiting for a response, raises my bed and holds a glass with a bent straw to my mouth. I try to move my hand to grasp it, but discover I’m hooked up to a drip.
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask, my voice raspy and anxious. “Will my leg be okay?”
“Do not upset yourself. The doctor will speak to you soon, and your mother is on her way,”
“Mom? She’s in the States… what day is it? How long have I been here?”